Letters From Afar
by Donchushka
Summary: Sebastian writes letters.
1. Letter 1

November, 5, 11:05 pm.

Dear Hunter,

I have never written letters, but there's first time for everything, right? That's why I'm sitting now in front of this piece of paper and try my best writing. Sorry for my handwriting, I'm a little nervous. But it's okay, to be nervous, when you're doing something for the very first time.

I think about you all the time, and doesn't matter how cliché it sounds. Today I remembered the day when we first met. I hardly recovered from stumble, and when you caught me, I couldn't recover at all. You called me a skeleton and shoved me. Jokingly, nicely while smiling so softly. You don't remember it, for sure, but I do. I remember everything, even tiny little moments.

What was it, algebra? Physics? Or chemistry? There were so many numbers around me and they tried to get into my head, but my thoughts kept returning to you. You'd already became… unusual for me. I'm Smythe, and no one ever considered me as something useful. In order to survive I became bitter, sarcastic and insulted everyone who came too close to me. But you were kind, and I hid everything, not wishing for you to get hurt.

Back then you were always talking about how straight you are, remember? I knew everything from the start. Sorry, dear, but you can't hide that. I didn't pressure you, knowing that you needed time. I'm still glad that I waited.

I like taking trips down memory lane, Hunt. Memories warm me, being like a big warm blanket, and I can imagine that you're hugging me. The same big strong and awkward Hunter. Sometimes I almost hear your voice calling me a dumbass and asking what did I do to your cat this time.

I still hate your cat and even you can't do anything about it. You know that I love you. And I can't find a way to share my love with that disgusting monster. I don't want anyone in my heart but you.

That's all for today, Hunt. Wow, it wasn't that scary, after all.

Forever yours,

Sebastian


	2. Letter 2

November, 8, 11:05 pm.

Dear Hunter,

It's raining, so I'm in a philosophical mood. I literally can see how you roll your eyes and want to say something mean, and, honestly, I even wanted to touch that tiny wrinkle on your forehead which appears every time you frown. But you're not here. If you were, I won't be writing this.

It's raining cats and dogs, but there are lots of people outside. Some of them have bright umbrellas and they are happy. Their smiles blind me and I want to ask, "What drugs are you on?" because they look so happy. Others have black umbrellas and they, apparently, hate the whole world. They have dark eyes and they frown, and I would like to know whether they can kill only wishing for it. Don't snort like that, dear. I'm so lonely that I start judging about happiness seeing only umbrellas.

I love rain, Hunt, and you know that better than anyone. I would like to go outside now – wearing only a shirt, find a quiet place and sing something about freedom, letting the cold drops fall on my face and chest. But I'm not free, I have you and I won't go outside because you wouldn't have wanted me to catch a cold.

You took care of me once, remember? My father threw me away, and I still can't tell you what he said to me that night. I came to you. No call, nothing, at 3 am. You let me in without any questions, and in the morning you had to wrap me in three blankets because I had fever and talked about little fairies. I'm still not sure whether I imagined your lips on my forehead.

You made me tea with the enormous amount of honey. You tea is terrible, Hunter, I will always say that. I don't understand how you could drink it all the time and be absolutely happy. I didn't run only because I had nowhere to go, and I survived that tea torture only because you asked me for it. You took care of me, and I never said thank you.

I am a terrible and ungrateful person, Hunt. I don't know how you managed to be okay with it. I whined, I complained, I was sneering and poisonous, but you just laughed, stroke my hair and said that I can stop pretending. You never said anything, but I saw that my behavior really hurt you. It's eating me inside, and the realization that I would never be able to heal these wounds does not help at all.

I love you so much. I should have said it more often. Shit, I'm still sure that one day you'll open my door and I'll just be happy. You will be laughing and holding me, and then you will jump on the bed and will tell another funny story about your cat. You'll tell me you love me, and I won't nod, won't hide my face, I'll say it back. I'll let those words bounce in the room and knock me off of my feet, just come back. Promise me you will come back. One day.

Autumn is the time for depression or for philosophy. I can't allow myself to be sad and I just don't know how to say smart words. Don't make me stop writing these letters, Hunt, they are the only thing that doesn't let me fall.

Forever yours,

Sebastian


	3. Letter 3

November, 15, 11:05 pm.

Dear Hunter,

These letters became some kind of a drug for me. I couldn't write anything for the whole week and it was killing me. Today, finally, I have some free time, so I'm rushing to you.

It was sunny today (why the hell am I talking about the weather again?) and people around me were disgustingly happy. I wanted to get a gun and kill something. I know that you don't like it when I'm mad, Hunt, but I have the right. Just be angry with me, I don't ask for more.

Call me a silly romantic, but I still remember our fifteenth of November. You came in my room (I wrote a biology assignment or something) and kissed me. Just kissed me. I forgot how to breathe, and when you pulled away and mumbled something about 'couldn't resist' I realized that I did not breathe before at all. I was just wasting oxygen, and only when I felt your lips on mine, my lungs started working properly. You gave me life, Hunt, and the more time passes, the more I feel the difference between me then and me now. So don't blame me and just be mad while remembering how happy we used to be.

I heard your song several days ago. You tried to call it 'our song' but I just rolled my eyes and said that it's stupid. Now I want it to be ours, but when I hear it I picture you, not us. It's your song and don't argue with me.

I realized what a fantastic idiot you are when I first heard it from you. Seriously, Hunt, normal people smoke after sex or start snoring. And you just held me and murmured, "My head is humming, my love, we have lost our innocence*". Don't pout, dear, if you were not such a charming nitwit, I wouldn't love you.  
I sing this song for a couple of days already, can you imagine? I don't get it; maybe, it takes me back to the times where we _were_. As I said, thoughts about the past warm me, although lots and lots of wise people claim that you can't hold on to it. I like to do it and I will hold on to the past as long as I can breathe. Anyway, I whisper, "I'm so in trouble, my love, but you are innocent" and feel that you're so close to me. I will feel your breath on my neck, your arms around my waist, press a kiss on the back of my neck, and I will calm down. Now. Now. Now…

Sometimes I think that I shouldn't have let you go that early. Look up the word 'fool' in a dictionary, Hunt, and you'll see my picture next to it. I was so stupid thinking that I could replace you. You're irreplaceable, dear, and to get you out of my head you need get out my brain as well.

Now the rains set in, and it makes me wonder… And the storm begins, I can hear the thunder… Sorry for my singing. You made fun of me all day when first heard me singing that song, but what could I do? I love everything you love. Except for the cat. Why that fluffy monster is in my letter again?

I whisper, "Gimme, gimme, gimme reason to live" and turn the lights off. I will write to you again, I promise.

Forever yours,

Sebastian

***The song: Fool's Garden - Innocence**


	4. Letter 4

November, 19, 11:05 pm.

Dear Hunter,

I did catch a cold. I don't know how but now I'm wrapped in the blanket with the pen in my trembling fingers (I promised to write you) and I wish I had tea. Your tea, Hunt. Who am I kidding, I wish I had you.

Why did you love me? I'm not complaining, but look at me. I'm skinny waste of skin which only hides an awful soul, I'm a shell-fish within its dirty shell. You weren't afraid to get your hands dirty, you reached the insides and claimed that found a pearl. You made me a better person, Hunt, that's why I love you endlessly, but me? Why did you need me?

Once I actually asked you this. You just laughed softly and asked, "Does it really matter?" It did, so your gray eyes met mine and you brushed your nose against mine, saying, "Because you are you, Bas. Isn't that enough?" I have never asked you anything like that anymore.

The other day I asked what did you think about the future. "Whether we disappear as a class?", you asked, your eyes glistening with laughter. On my "About our future, Hunt" you said that someone talks too much after sex and then you wouldn't stop going. You talked about a little house in the countryside, about wedding and white flowers. You talked about a dog that would jump in front of the house, a couple of children and cold beer on hot days. You talked about movie nights, innocent kisses before children and baseball on Sundays. With every word I fell in love with you over and over again because you wanted to do all these things with me. Where did all that go, Hunt? The house is sold to some rich old man who keeps his gold there, flowers withered, beer is warm and the dog is dead. Where is our American dream? It got killed by reality.

Head is getting heavier, it's hard to keep my eyes opened. Where are you, when I need you so much? In some kind of desperation I beg you to come, to hold me, to comfort me, to get me away from this routine which is slowly killing me. I'm screaming till my throat starts throbbing and ignore the angry neighbor; I tear the paper, try to destroy it but then I remember that you are on that paper. Sorry, dear, I've driven myself crazy. I close the window and try to calm down, and I still have that tiny hope that one day you will lit my cold apartment with your joyful laugh.

Do you know why I start writing on the exact same hour? It gets a lot of time to transfer my thoughts from my head to the paper, so when I finish, the new day begins. You are really the first and the last thought of my day. Foolish, cliché, annoying – let it be. I just love you, Hunt, and I love thinking of you.

It's getting colder and I can feel your eyes on my back telling me to go to sleep. I can't disobey you, dear. It's 11:59 pm. I would send a picture, but you will believe me, I know.

Forever yours,

Sebastian


	5. Letter 5

December, 1, 11:05 pm.

Dear Hunter,

Congratulations. It's been a year since we broke up. I don't know whether to celebrate or to cry that I managed to live three hundred and sixty-five days without you. I'm still confused, I still can't believe that it's been a year. I remember everything as if it happened only yesterday.

We had a huge fight a couple of days before that, remember? What was the reason, the colour of curtains, the quality of the TV-show, the size of your shoes? I can't remember it, dear, but it seemed so important back then… You smashed the plate over my head and I might shove your cat. You called me a lot of bad words and I told you to get out. You went through that door without a single word and I forgot about our argument the second you walked out.

I don't know what would be with us, if it wasn't for Santana. She talked me out of depression and forced you to come to my apartment. Honestly, Hunt, when I saw you then I was genuinely surprised that we actually did have a fight. I just hugged you, like a lost and frightened koala bear, and you hugged me back, not saying anything. Probably, it was then when I realized that I don't want to let you go. Ever.

Santana still rolls her eyes and tells me that it's time to move on. I'd like to, Hunt, but I still love you with all my heart. My love for you lives in my veins. And for me to stop loving you is like change my Rh factor. I can't do it and no one can. Santana snorts and leaves to come back in a week or two, and I buy a new pen and come back to letters. To you.

It's still weird to wake up and not see you next to me. Really, it's been a year, I must get used to it but I can't. I still think that you just got up early and went out to buy some bread. You did go out, dear, but not for shopping. They are a nice substitute, these letters, I really see you while I write them. But the end comes too fast, the ink runs out and your image slowly disappears to arise in the next letter. They can't substitute you, Hunt. No one can.

I think a lot lately, maybe even too much. I see your smirk and can't help but smile too. Yes, dear, usually I don't do things like that. My 25th birthday is approaching but I feel like I'm already in my deathbed. I clearly remember your face that morning when you turned 25. You were happy because you had everything. It was only a quarter of your century and you were on top of the world. You were happy because you were young, Hunt, and what do I do? My world is slowly hanging in black and I can't change it. I just cry for the disappearing white colours, and I'm so afraid that when I turn 25 I will feel that I'm at least three times older. What did you think about that night when you turned 25?

I was really mad at you at first, dear, sorry about that. Now I'm just sad. Remember, I said that I don't allow myself to be sad. Now all that crap is gone.

I'm going to get some whiskey, Hunt. Please don't judge me because I'll try to get drunk tonight. Just sit here and we'll be sad together. For the first time in the year.

Forever yours,

Sebastian


	6. Epilogue

December, 2, 1:45 pm.

Dear Mr Clarington!

We regret to inform you that Sebastian Smythe died last night. The cause of the death is the car crush. In his pockets we found letters which are addressed to you, so we ask you to come to the following address for the corpse identification.

John Smith, police inspector.

December, 2, 3:20 pm.

Dear Mr Smith!

My name is Hannah Clarington and I answer all letters which come on the name of my brother. Mr Clarington won't be able to identify the body of Mr Smythe because he is dead for the whole year. I can do it, if it is necessary.

Hannah Clarington

Hannah sat on the Hunter's bad and sobbed quietly, her head on her knees. In one hand she held a pile of letters in white envelops, in another – just a piece of paper which looked much dirtier and worn than clean envelops. The ink almost faded away, the paper was thin and torn in some places, but the words were still clear. The dates on the last letter and that note were the same, except for the year.

_My dear Sebastian,_

_It's okay, baby, really. Don't even think of blaming yourself. I will be out in no time, I promise, just… write to me, okay? I will be waiting._

_I really, really love you._

_Your Hunter_


End file.
